


Plums

by Frayach



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Play, BDSM, Consensual Kink, Dom/sub, Explicit Sexual Content, Graphic Description, M/M, vomit play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-08
Updated: 2012-10-08
Packaged: 2017-11-15 22:00:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/532235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frayach/pseuds/Frayach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Master and his slave have “been together” for 10 years.  They need their “relationship” like they need the air they breathe.</p><p>
  <img/>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Plums

**Author's Note:**

> Before you start reading, PLEASE READ THIS WARNING! This is hands-down the most extreme sexual content I've ever written, and it absolutely certain to disturb most people. It involves extreme kinks written extremely explicitly, including vomit-play, extreme anal fetish, medical instrument fetish, spanking and allusions to water sports and enemas – please, I am not playing around with these warnings. If you have doubts about whether you should read it, then I highly recommend not reading it. And FYI, I will delete any comment that complains about the story's content. I cannot think of a way to make this warning clearer. Inw, read at your own risk.

The slave opens his mouth, and The Master feeds him yet another slice of plum. His wrists are bound behind him so he can’t hold the glass of water The Master forces him to drink from. They’ve been doing this for an hour – a sliced plum followed by a half a glass of water. The slave has to force himself to swallow; his stomach is full and distended. Now and then, The Master reaches down and places his hand on it and presses. Each time, the slave’s mouth fills with regurgitated pulp, and he spits it out into the bucket beside him. His eyes water with the effort to keep himself from vomiting. It’s not time yet.

“Open you mouth,” The Master says and stuffs more plum slices down the slave’s throat. “You can take more than this. Last time you took nearly double.”

The slave groans with discomfort and humiliation and gags at the thought of having to eat any more. He spits into the bucket again and struggles to fight a full-on heave.

“I’m going to throw up, sir,” he says pleadingly. “Please, may I have your cock?”

“Not yet,” The Master says, his voice rough. “Soon, but not yet. Look at me.”

The slave must always keep his gaze on the floor unless The Master permits him to look up. He raises his eyes and watches The Master knead the bulge in his leather trousers.

“I’m going to fuck your mouth till you’re sick,” The Master says matter-of-factly.

Just the thought of having The Master’s thick cock down his throat both thrills and horrifies the slave. He heaves, and The Master abruptly lifts his spit-slick chin and stares into his eyes.

“Don’t disappoint me,” he says. “You know what’ll happen if you do. You’ll lick it up and we’ll start all over. I want you to vomit from my cock, and one way or another, I always get what I want.”

The slave merely nods his understanding. He tries to speak, but he’s afraid to open his mouth.

Nothing is worse than disappointing The Master. The slave’s whole existence depends on giving him pleasure.

 

* * * *

 

The Minister’s unctuous assistant leads Draco to the Minister’s office as though he hasn’t already been there a thousand times.

“Tea?” she asks.

He wants to say no. Her tea is always too weak. But then again fetching it would give her a task so she’ll stop hovering nervously.

As always, he’s the first one there. It isn’t unexpected because the Minister always made them wait, but Draco had punctuality hammered into him by his mother. When he was a child, even a minute’s tardiness to dinner would cost him his dessert.

These Monday morning meetings are always agonising. He doesn’t understand why all the department heads have to gather like this. It seems to him that individual meetings would be far more efficient, but the Minister seems to enjoy their little, groggy-headed get-togethers.

Smedley Jacobs is next to arrive with a coffee mug the size of a small continent.

“Morning, Malfoy,” he says, raising the mug in greeting as though they were in a pub.

Draco gives him a quirk of a smile. “Good morning,” he replies in a tone designed to discourage anymore frivolous chatter.

The assistant enters the room with his tea just as Chastity Jones walks in.

“Malfoy, Jacobs,” Jones says brusquely. She is not an amusing person. Draco suspects it’s due to the unfortunate name her parents saddled her with.

Slowly, the other department heads drift in wearing a variety of peevish expressions. Harry will be the last to arrive. He always is. These Monday morning meetings are the only times they cross paths. The rest of the work week, they’re assiduously careful to avoid each other. Their roles are too rigid to permit social interactions. They wouldn’t know what to say to each other, and who knew how it might affect their next session. Neither of them wants anything to happen that might jeopardise their “relationship.” 

 

* * * *

 

The Master keeps force-feeding the slave slices of plum, growing more and more aroused as the slave’s regurgitations increase in intensity and frequency. He can hear the chewed pulp hitting the bottom of the metal bucket.

Fuck. He isn’t going to be able to take much more of this, and, he suspects, neither can the slave. He stands up from the settee and opens his trousers. He’s sweaty and the leather trousers are tight. He has to peel them down off his hips. The slave inhales deeply, and The Master’s pierced cock bobs, breaking the thick strand of precome that is oozing from the slit. He returns to the settee and sits on its very edge.

“You may smell me,” he says in a voice that makes it clear that he’s just given a command and not offered a choice.

* * * *

 

Harry leans on the secretary’s desk flipping through the pages of the _Prophet_. He’s killing time, waiting for the last of the department heads to enter the Minister’s office. These Monday morning meetings are always excruciating. His and Draco’s sessions are on Sundays; they parted at eight just the night before. Seeing each other in their work robes twelve hours later is jarring to say the least.

When Wallaby arrives, Harry knows he’s got to go in. Wallaby is always late.

“Good morning, Potter. Lovely weather we’re having this morning.”

“Yup.”

Wallaby smiles at him. “Has anyone ever told you what a riveting conversationalist you are?” he asks, holding the door open.

Harry smiles back. “Nope.”

“Ah, there’re the stragglers,” Jacobs says.

Harry can’t help but look at Draco, but it’s only a quick glance. Draco doesn’t turn his head to acknowledge his arrival.

Their obvious avoidance of each other has convinced everyone that they loathe each other, which is handy. They always save Harry the chair farthest from Draco’s.

“Potter, how’d Saturday’s match end? Did the Aurors lose to the Unspeakables again?”  
Harry glowers at Jacobs. His wife is an Unspeakable; Harry’s sure he already knows they lost miserably.

“Not so well,” he replies accepting a cup of tea from the Minister’s assistant. “Cheers. Jones, would you pass the biccies? I’m starving.”

“Why don’t you eat breakfast? Biscuits are hardly nutritious,” says Wallaby.

“Not all of us what to start our day with sprouts and carrot juice.”

Harry quickly nabs the chocolate Digestive, knowing it’s Jacobs’ favourite kind. He stuffs it in his mouth and grins at Jacobs.

“Hard luck, old boy,” he says in the most annoying tone he can muster.

“Bastard,” Jacobs says in a tone that suggested he means it.

 

* * * *

 

The slave buries his face in The Master’s lap, inhaling deeply. As it always was, The Master’s crotch is unwashed. The slave knows he hasn’t bathed in anticipation of their Sunday session. Despite his discomfort, the slave’s cock swells and hangs heavily between his legs. He loves the way The Master smells. The stronger and earthier, the better. The slave moans in appreciation.

The Master seizes the shaft of his cock and points it toward the slave’s face. The slave’s mouth waters, and it has nothing to do with plums. He wants to taste and be fucked. He can’t wait much longer; when he gags again, he brings up more than he has yet.

“Look at me,” The Master says. “And open your mouth. Don’t vomit until I’ve come down your throat.”

Before the slave is ready, The Master shoves his cock into his mouth and starts thrusting. The slave gags and has to spit, but The Master’s hand is on his head, holding him in place, forcing the slave to regurgitate on The Master’s lap. The Master groans with pleasure. The slave knows this is his favourite game.

The Master’s no longer thrusting – he’s _fucking_. The slave gags again. It’s both too much and not enough. He needs to be plundered. As though The Master had read his mind, he holds the slave’s head steady and plunges down his throat over and over. His expression is a fierce grimace of pleasure.

“Oh god, fuck,” he moans. “Fuck. Swallow my cock!”

The slave tries his best to do as he’s told.

 

* * * *

 

After what feels like a million years, the Minister finally arrives, and they all stand in greeting. Draco doesn’t look directly at him, but he can see Harry out of the corner of his eye and has to fight back a smile. Harry stands last and only halfway. Instead of nodding a greeting, he wipes crumbs off his robe.

“Good morning,” says the Minister, sitting down like a prince on his throne. Draco feels his lip curl ever so slightly. “Malfoy, why don’t we start with you? Has all that unpleasantness with the goblins been sorted?”

Draco sucks on his teeth for a moment evaluating his choice of answers. The variety ranges from a slight omission to a flat-out lie. He chooses the flat-out lie.

“Fine, sir,”

“Good, good. Those bloody goblins can be so unreasonable sometimes. When are you meeting with them again?”

“Friday morning.”

“Very good. While you’re at it, why don’t you find out how much they’re willing to loan us for the proposed Muggle Museum.”

 _Nothing, thankfully_ ,” is what Draco wants to say. The goblins loathe frivolous projects that don’t result in any meaningful gain for them, and what’s more, the prospect of a Muggle museum will not be met with enthusiasm. Draco shares the sentiment.

Harry likely thinks the museum is a great idea. His friend Granger is probably the one who came up with it. Draco has no idea what Harry’s feelings are on the subject . . . or on any other subject for that matter. They only interact through their roles, and their roles don’t permit normal conversation. All Draco knows about Harry is what he gleans from newspaper articles. He knows Harry is married and a father, just as Draco is, but he doesn’t even know his children’s names. Nor does he know where Harry lives. They own a place in a nondescript Muggle neighbourhood. It’s just a tiny flat on the top floor of an unremarkable building and contains nothing that isn’t necessary for their play. There isn’t even a bed. Beds aren’t for the kind of fucking they do.

“ . . . and how goes the Treasury’s report on the state of our expenditures? I’ll need it on my desk sometime before the end of the month.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem, sir,” Draco replies smoothly even though he hadn’t been paying even the slightest bit attention.

“Good, good,” says the Minister. “Let’s move on. Jacobs, you’re next.”

 

* * * *

 

The Master holds onto the slave’s ears and uses them to yank the slave’s head down just as he’s thrusting up.

Suddenly, he’s going to come. There’s no stopping it. The Master feels the slave’s throat contract as he gags. The slave’s cheeks are wet with tears and his chin and throat and chest covered with regurgitated pulp. He’s the most beautiful sight The Master has ever seen.  
“I’m fucking coming,” he groans, throwing his head back and thrusting helplessly as he feels the come spurt from his cock. It goes on forever as the slave’s gagging throat massages the head and its piercing.

He scarcely finishes coming before the slave tugs away and vomits violently into the bucket. His whole body heaves and heaves and heaves as he retches. The choking, moaning, gurgling sounds are music to the Master’s ears. He’s going to be able to wank just from the memory of those sounds alone.

“Come on,” he says breathlessly. “Bring it all up.” 

The slave is sobbing in-between retches. He’s shaking with the intensity of his vomiting. As he leans over the bucket, his sweat-soaked hair hangs around his face, obscuring it. The Master reaches down and grabs the hair in his fist, holding it back so he can see the slave’s face. He doesn’t want to miss a moment. He loves this more than anything, but they rarely did it because it’s intensely demanding for the slave – both mentally and physically. Part of his role as Master is his duty to protect and care for his slave. Although it mightn’t seem that way to an outside viewer, The Master is always aware of the slave’s outer limits. His duty is to break through the slave’s inner limits, but not go so far as to terrorise him. They’ve “been together” for ten years. Never in that whole time has the slave used his safe word.

At last the slave’s retching turns to hiccups. He’s weak and trembling. The Master banishes the vomit-filled bucket and summons a bowl of warm water and a cloth and another bowl that the slave can spit into. Of course, he won’t minister to the slave, but he wants to remind the slave that he’s cared about, and yes, most of all, loved.

 

* * * *

 

Harry is falling asleep. He’s still experiencing the effects of the day before. He keeps slipping back and forth between Jacobs’ excruciatingly boring accounting of his department’s goings-on and the memory of his and Draco’s play during yesterday’s session. It’d been intense to put things mildly. They began, as they always do, with an enema. They know they could use a spell and achieve the same result, but they both love the enema play too much to give it up. Plus, it’s a nice gentle way to start. Then came the spanking, and after that the vomit play. Nothing they do is more demanding on both them . . .

“Potter?”

Harry jumps at the sound of his name. Bugger. This always seems to happen – perhaps not all that surprisingly.

“Yes?” He always makes a point of leaving off the “sir.” The Minister’s barely suppressed consternation is the only amusing thing that ever happens at these stupid meetings.

“How have you progressed on that embezzlement case?”

 _Not far_ , Harry wants to say. The case seemed less important than the two recent murders in Liverpool’s wizarding district.

“I’ve assigned Barkley to look into it . . .”

“Why aren’t _you_ handling it? Stealing from the government is no small matter!”

Harry wants to roll his eyes, but stops himself in the nick of time. “Neither is a gang of former Voldemort supporters apparently offing people for entertainment.”

Instead of looking placated, the Minister frowns. “I sometimes think, Mr. Potter, that you see Death Eaters around every corner. It’s time to stop fighting the War, don’t you agree?”

The whole room goes utterly silent, and everyone starts looking intently at his or her notes.

“Pardon?” Harry says. “I’m not sure I heard you correctly . . .”

“You _did_ hear me correctly.”

“Two people have been murdered . . . !”

“Which is very unfortunate.”

“ _Unfortunate_?” Harry sputters. “That’s what I’d call that bloody embezzlement case, not the deaths of parents with a young child! That little girl’s going to grow up an orphan!”

“Harry,” Jones says, putting her hand on his shoulder and easing him back down into his chair. “Perhaps this is neither the time nor the place to have this discussion.”

“I agree,” says the Minister. “We’ll continue this discussion on Friday, Auror Potter.”

Harry grits his teeth. How dare he? The bastard who they now have to call “minister” left Britain as fast as he could after Cedric died and only returned when he felt it was safe to. He doesn’t have a fucking clue! Harry takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.

Sunday can’t come fast enough.

 

* * * *

 

There’s only one piece of regular furniture in their flat – The Master’s settee. It’s big enough for him to stretch out fully and still have plush, plump pillows at both his head and his feet.

He lies down and places his folded arms behind his head and tries to settle on one of the various options for their next game. On the floor beside him, the slave dozes lightly. He needs to rest after what he’s just been through.

So many tempting options, but they only have time for one more. There’s little doubt that, despite his vomiting, the slave needs to piss. After all, he drank a lot of water. The Master could fuck him with one of their enormous dildos until the slave can’t hold it any longer and pisses all over himself. The Master’s spent cock twitches at the thought. Or they could switch tunes altogether and go for some bondage and torture, but he’s already tested the slave’s endurance too much.

Then there is that remaining plum . . . 

 

* * * *

 

Poor Harry. Draco would love to stand up and walk out of the office in protest. How dare that cowardly man twisting the ends his waxed moustache say anything of the War, let alone Harry’s role in it! He grips the arms of his chair.

They’d found each other immediately after the War. They were both still traumatised and grief-stricken, and both had powerful demons they had to fight.

The knowledge of their mutual needs became apparent to both of them when they’d encountered each other at an adult cinema showing a film of extreme bondage and torture. They hadn’t spoken, but they’d moved so they were sitting together and wanked each other to orgasm. In a single conversation they revealed to each other what each of them wanted . . . no _needed_ . . . the other one to do.

For a while they’d met at the cinema as they’d cemented their roles into place. Then they’d met in hotel rooms, and then after a year, they’d bought the flat and filled it with stocks and racks and a gorgeous leather swing. Instead of a carpet, they’d laid down a thick rubber matting from wall to wall (their play always involved one kind of bodily emission or another). Shelves contained dozens of toys and medical instruments, and the refrigerator and cabinets contained energy-sustaining food and drinks, none of which included alcohol. They _never_ drank when they were together – it was far too dangerous.

“Well, are we finished here?” asks the Minister. “Have I forgot anyone? Oh, Potter, there’s another matter I wanted to discuss.”

Draco grips the arms of his chair again. It couldn’t be a secret to anyone in the room that the Minister didn’t like Harry. Probably because he feels threatened by Harry, which actually isn’t that unreasonable a fear. Draco has no doubt that Harry could be the Minister and someday probably would be. The public adores him. He’s the Press’s darling. The most inconsequential story about Harry was always on the front page while an important article about the Minister’s government was inside.

Not that Harry courted all the attention. He seemed either oblivious to it or annoyed by it. Draco doesn’t know. He never will.

But it doesn’t matter. He knows the _real_ Harry.

 

* * * *

The Master wakes the slave with a couple of loud claps, and the slave rises to his knees and waits while The Master binds his wrists, inserts a ball gag in his mouth and buckles a harness around his chest. For his own part, The Master puts on a skin-tight latex hood that makes him look like an executioner. The slave shudders with anticipation, wondering what the Master has planned for them.

The Master goes to a rack on the far wall and chooses a paddle. He then goes to the shelves and stands for a moment, obviously considering his options. At last he settles on a steel anal speculum. Realising they’re going to engage in anal play, the slave’s cock swells and throbs with need.

Maybe this time, The Master will let him come.

But then his hopes are dashed when he sees The Master summon his wand and feels the plug slowly entering his urethra. He moans with desperation around the gag. He needs to come. His balls ache. He tries to say “Please” but then he feels the blow of the paddle on his arse, and he squeaks. The pain caused by the blow compliments the pain of the insertion of the plug, and he spreads his legs as wide as he can. The Master spanks him again.

“Good boy,” he says. “Now relax that greedy hole of yours.”

The slave’s eyes roll back in ecstasy when he feels the cold metal press against his opening. The speculum is greased and slides in easily. The slave’s eyes fill with needy tears, and he wriggles his arse, needing more – needing to be opened and filled. 

As though he’d intuited his thoughts (which was actually most likely the case), The Master begins slowly opening the speculum. The slave rocks backward trying to take it deeper, but The Master slaps him hard on the arse.

“We will go at my speed,” he says. “Not yours. You don’t have my permission to pleasure yourself.” He then adds “you greedy slut,” but his tone belies the harshness of his words – it’s fondly amused and almost tender. It’s evidence enough for the slave to conclude that he’s making his beloved Master very pleased today.

 

* * * *

 

“What did you want to discuss?” Harry asks warily. He doesn’t think he’s going to be able to restrain himself if the Minister says one more thing that pisses him off.

“That new recruit, what’s her name?”

Fuck, Harry thinks. He should’ve predicted this and come up with a standard answer ahead of time.

“Heidi Smith-Stebbins.”

“Ah yes, that’s the girl I’m talking about. I’ve heard some alarming rumours about her.”

Harry takes a deep breath and tries to stop imagining how his hands would feel around the Minister’s neck.

“Involving what?”

“Sir,” the Minister’s assistant whispers in his ear. “Involving what, _sir_?”  
Harry turns to her and gives her a withering glare. She quickly steps away as though she’d looked into the eyes of Medusa.

Thankfully the Minister starts having a coughing fit, and his assistant runs to fetch him some tea. While everyone is distracted, Harry glances over at Draco. It’s always so odd seeing him in regular clothes. His robe is pressed, and an impressive number of jewelled rings adorn his perfectly manicured fingers. Harry looks down at himself. Whereas Draco’s robe is smooth and immaculate, Harry’s looks like he’d just plucked it out of the hamper and cast a lazy cleaning charm. It’s rumpled, and there’s a button missing, and, oh god, was that a curry stain? How’d Ginny let him out of the house looking like this? Was it revenge for having forgotten to bring home milk for two nights in a row? His only source of relief is knowing that as soon as he gets back to his office, he’ll strip it off and toss it in a corner.

Draco’s profile is striking. Well, everything about him is striking, but none so much as his profile. Harry has to wrench his eyes away. No one, most of all Draco himself, can notice Harry staring. Thankfully, the Minister stops hacking into his handkerchief.

“Where was I?” the Minister asks. “Ah, yes, your unruly new recruit, Mr. Potter. Perhaps it’s time to end her training and send her back to the wolf pack that raised her.”

Jacobs chuckles into his hand and then pretends to yawn discreetly.

“She shows significant promise,” Harry says and then grudgingly adds a “sir.” It goads him beyond words to have to use an honorary with the pompous bastard.

“Promise to maim and injure all her fellow recruits?”

“That was an accident . . . sir. I conducted my own investigation and determined there was no conscious wrong-doing.

“Hurumph,” the Minister grumbles. “You’re too forgiving of people with rash temperaments. Now why would that be, I wonder . . . ?”

Harry has to bite his lip before his “rash temperament” causes him to Transfigure the Minister’s revolting moustache into a decaying rat. Which, now that he considers it, might be an improvement.

* * * *

 

The Master’s heart starts pounding and his breathing grows increasingly shallow as he slowly opens the speculum. The slave’s rectum is bright pink. He opens the speculum as far as it goes, providing himself with an unimpeded view of the slave’s gorgeous colon. Everything about the slave’s arse is perfect. His hole is dark around the rim of his sphincter with the most delicate hint of pink at its centre. Inside is the velvety channel of his rectum that is constantly moving – and beyond that is the sheer unadulterated beauty of his colon. The Master has opened the speculum wide enough that he can see it. He’ll never forget the first time he’d used the speculum and explored the depths of the slave’s arse. He’d shook with the desire to see, not just his rectum, but his intestines. It was all he could think about, but then he’d discovered the only Muggle artefact that he couldn’t live without – an endoscope. Adding a couple of magical enhancements to the basic design, he created an instrument that would let him see far into the slave’s body, past the point where his bare sight could go. Then he’d had made a long flexible dildo that could reach that deep inside, and he’d charmed it so that when he inserted it he’d feel the sensation in his cock. He always wanked before he fucked the slave with that dildo because he didn’t want to hurt him by thrusting. Just the feeling of being so deep and the constant rippling of the intimate channel always made him come again.

He almost abandons his plans for the remaining plum in favour of the endoscope; he hasn’t yet used it this month, but then he recalls his plan which is much too delicious to abandon. Using the speculum to keep the slave’s rectum open, The Master pushes the plum inside almost to the point where he can’t see it anymore. Again, the slave wriggles his arse. He’s just as greedy to be filled as The Master is to do the filling. He paddles the slave’s arse again, reminding him that he doesn’t have permission to move yet. 

“I’m thirsty,” he purrs roughly in the slave’s ear, making him shiver and causing goose flesh to cover his arms. “That’s a plum that’s in your arse. Wring it dry for me.”

The slave moans around his gag, and The Master lets him. This isn’t going to be easy.

“Squeeze,” he orders. “As hard as you can.” 

The slave responds with a grunt of effort. The Master bends down and looks inside him. The plum has inched forward slightly. As it gets closer, The Master removes the speculum.

“Don’t push it out,” he says menacingly. “Just squeeze as hard as you can.” He can feel the slave’s whole body tremble with effort as he tries to comply.

It takes awhile, but at last The Master sees the first dribble of juice. He quickly summons a glass from the kitchen and holds it under the slave’s opening.

“Good,” he says. “But you can do better. _Squeeze_! Crush it if you can.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, juice squirts out, and The Master has to be quick to catch it. “Squeeze,” he says again, and more juice squirts out. The plum isn’t small, but it must be almost wrung dry by this point. There’s another squirt, but it’s weaker, and then the juice returns to being a dribble.

It’s one of the most erotic things he’s ever seen.

Eventually, the dribble stops. The Master stands and goes to sit on his settee. As he’s been trained, the slave’s eyes are on the floor.

“You may look at me,” The Master says.

The slave’s face is a dark red and his fringe is damp from all the work he’s done. The Master waits until he’s got the slave’s full attention. He lifts his hood until his face is uncovered, puts the glass to his lips and empties it in one big gulp.

 

* * * *

 

“Well,” says the Minister. “I’ll overlook this incident, but I want your instructors to watch her closely. We certainly don’t need another rogue Auror.”

Harry wants to say that, actually, that’s _precisely_ what they need. He’d already noticed Smith-Stebbins and planned to see to her advancement personally. She’s tough and fearless and innately suspicious of authority. In other words, he sees a lot of himself in her. Whoever said he couldn’t play favourites?

“Now are we done? I’ve got other matters to attend to this morning,” says the Minister.  
“And we don’t?” Harry mutters under his breath. Wallaby spits his tea into his cup. Harry can’t help it; he grins broadly.

After the Minister leaves the room, Wallaby gives him a punch on the shoulder. “You,” he says, “are testing The Great Man’s patience.”

Both Jacobs and Jones laugh, and Harry can’t not glance at Draco . . .

. . . who is smiling as he gathers his parchments. He doesn’t look up, but Harry knows the smile is for him and that he’s meant to notice it.

Harry has the sudden desire to go to Draco, lift his head, and kiss him on the mouth. The desire only lasts for a moment: a kiss would ruin everything. But nonetheless, he wonders how Draco’s tongue tastes and if his lips are as soft as they look.

 

* * * *

With the juice gone, the slave tries to push out the plum’s remains, but The Master grabs the paddle and spanks him hard.

“I didn’t give you permission to empty yourself,” The Master admonishes. He kneels before the slave’s arse again, and the slave feels the head of his cock against his arsehole. The Master enters him with a grunt, and the slave spreads his legs. The Master’s balls bump against his. The Master’s in as deep as he can go, shoving the remains of the plum back into the slave’s body. The Master stills for a moment, and the slave can feel his cock throb. Slowly, the Master draws back and pulls himself all the way out with a groan. It’s torture for both of them. The slave wants to be fucked and used without mercy.

Again, the slave feels the insertion of the speculum and its slow widening. Tears fill his eyes. He desperately needs to come.

“The plum is deep inside you,” The Master says. “I can barely see it. I want you to push it out like you’re having a shit.”

The slave starts doing what he’s been told, and behind him, the Master groans. They do something like this every session. Usually it’s a string of metal balls that the slave evacuates one by one. If his cock wasn’t caged and plugged, pushing out the balls always made him come, even without his cock being touched. The feeling of expelling something from his arse as The Master watches is unbearably arousing. He can feel the muscles in his rectum ripple around the plum. The tears that had been in his eyes start to spill. He prays The Master will take pity on him and remove the plug.

 

* * * *

 

Out of the corner of his eye, Draco watches Harry run a hand through his unruly hair in frustration. Yes, he’s laughing, but Draco knows that underneath he’s seething. Even five days from now, Draco knows Harry will still need to work through the emotions of this morning.  
As he always does after these Monday meetings, Draco feels an intense need to go to one of their offices and play a game. His cock is throbbing beneath his robes. It would be so easy, and a few elementary spells would ensure nobody found out. The desk would make a wonderful prop for their play . . .

But they can’t. If they did, there’d be a precedent – a reason in the future to say “well, we did it before.” The necessary boundaries in their lives would collapse. It would be too easy to lose their public selves and slip into their roles fulltime. Draco knows that numerous Dom/slave relationships advance that far, but theirs cannot. Everything would have to change. That’s why they come to each other – to help them both manage their “real” lives.

But that doesn’t mean that Draco doesn’t fantasize about it.

“Lunch, lads?” Wallaby asks.

“Why not,” replies Jones. “Malfoy? Potter?”

“Sadly, I have work to do,” Draco replies, not feeling sad at all.

“You always have work to do,” Jacobs says. “Live a little, Malfoy.”

Harry gives a snort of laughter. He doesn’t look at Draco when he says “Yeah, Malfoy, live a little.”

 

* * * *

 

The Master watches the plum’s slow but steady progression and seizes his cock, pumping it hard.

“Push,” he commands breathlessly and widens the speculum again so he doesn’t miss a moment. As soon as the plum squeezes from the slave’s hole, he’s going to fuck him like an animal.

As the plum nears the slave’s opening, The Master pulls out the speculum and sits back on his heels. This is his favourite part – the moment when whatever it was he’d put in the slave’s arse squeezes through the rim of his sphincter and falls to the floor.

* * * *

“So, Potter, who’s going to win the World Cup?”

“Greece. Again. I’ve got tickets for the Final next Saturday.”

“Really? You bastard. Care for some company?”

Harry gives Jacobs a “sorry mate” shrug. “Ginny and Ron and the kids,” he says.

“Well, it was worth a try.”

Draco is talking with Jones. Harry can tell by the way he’s standing that the conversation’s about work. As soon as he realises the others are discussing the World Cup, he turns and tells Jacobs that he also has tickets. Harry knows he’s actually speaking to him, not Jacobs.

“I’m five rows up just in front of the goal,” he says. “Where are you, Malfoy?”

“Wow!” says Jacobs. “Mark your calendars and remember this momentous day: Potter and Malfoy actually spoke to each other.”

Harry rolls his eyes at him, annoyed that someone had noticed their exchange.

“Terraces,” Draco replies and doesn’t elaborate.

Harry breathes a sigh of relief. It would not do at all to be seated near each other. Neither of them wants the other to hear his mundane chit-chat. The mere idea of Draco listening to him buy pasties for the kids made his heart race unpleasantly. From Draco’s long exhale, he can tell that Draco shares his feelings.

 

* * * *

 

One last hard push, and the slave feels the plum slip free of his body, and immediately the gag, the cock ring and the plug vanish.

When he feels The Master mount him and slip his cock into his arse, he starts to sob. The Master debasing himself to fuck his hole is the greatest praise he can bestow.

“I’m going to come so far up your arse that you’ll be able to taste it,” The Master growls as he grips the slave’s harness and uses it to impale the slave’s body by pulling the slave back at the same moment he thrusts forward. Their balls bump with each thrust. 

The slave feels the pressure of his cruelly forbidden orgasm build and build. He can’t stop sobbing. He’s so grateful. Not only is he giving The Master pleasure, he’s going to come. He hasn’t been permitted to come in over a month.

Just as he realises he’s going to explode, The Master calls his name and thrusts wildly. His name on The Master’s tongue is more than the slave can bear, and he comes violently, gasping for breath between his sobs. The Master calls his name again. The slave wants nothing more than to call out The Master’s name in answer, but he can’t. It isn’t permitted.

 

* * * *

 

Draco stands in the corridor watching Harry’s back as he walks to the lifts. It’s straight and proud. It hadn’t always been that way. He’d nearly been broken by the War and its aftermath. Their “relationship” and what they do together changed that. Harry had never said so aloud, but Draco could tell by the changes in his posture and his range of expressions over the years.

Wallaby says something. Harry turns to look at him and laughs. It sounds real and not just a thoughtless reflex. Draco feels his heart swell with pride and a unique kind of love that he’s grown to need and appreciate more than any other kind of love in his life. He’d be lost without it. Not that he’d ever reveal that to Harry. He can’t, but it’s enough to be able to acknowledge it to himself.

 

* * * *

“I’m going to come,” The Master grunts, riding the slave’s arse even harder than he had been. “Fuck, I’m going to come in your arse. Look what you’ve done to me!”

The slave’s heart races. The Master doesn’t often come in the slave’s body, preferring instead to pump his cock until he explodes on the slave’s arse or in his hair or on his face. The fact that he’s going to come in his arse is overwhelming.

Suddenly The Master goes silent and freezes mid-thrust. He’s coming; the slave can feel it. He can feel The Master’s sweat drip onto his back and his whole body shake. It goes on forever. The Master moans his name, his voice breaking in-between the two syllables.

When he stops coming, The Master stands and walks a bit unsteadily to the settee where he sits and tilts his head back. He’s still wearing the latex hood. He usually does at least once during their sessions. The slave had been deeply disturbed by it in the beginning, which meant The Master forced him to deal with it. Their play is all about pushing back their arbitrary limits and confronting their fears. The hood will never be his favourite prop, but it no longer upsets him.

At last, The Master unzips the hood and pulls it off. He shakes his sweat-soaked hair and combs his fingers through it. He summons a pocket watch and looks at the time. The slave can tell by the colour of the twilight outside the window that it’s late. The Master’s expression of disappointment confirms his suspicion.

“You’re looking at me,” he says. “You’re lucky we’re out of time because I’d give you a sound whipping. You may bathe and dress.”

He’s not allowed to walk in the Master’s presence, so the slave crawls to the bathroom. His knees and elbows complain; he’d spent most of the day on his knees and forearms with his arse in the air.

When he emerges, The Master will be gone. He’s always the first to arrive and the first to leave.

The towels are soft and plush and feel like heaven against the slave’s abused arse. He takes a deep breath and enjoys it before he summons his wand and banishes every trace of their time together. He doesn’t want his wife to notice and quiz him about it. Or anyone else for that matter.

They never Apparate straight in or out of their flat. Instead, they take the Tube. The slave glances around the room to make sure everything is clean and back in its place before he opens the door and quietly slips out.

* * * *

Of course, the slave had no clue, but on the way to the Tube stop, The Master always stops at a little café for a sandwich. He always sits back from the front window, but he can nonetheless see the slave as he walks by. He no longer pauses to cup his hands around a cigarette and light it. He’d stopped smoking years ago.

Tomorrow morning they’ll be sitting on the opposite sides of the Minister’s office, trying not to look at or talk to each other, but in their hearts, both of them knew that all they could think about was each other.

The Master finishes his tea and walks out of the café into the warm summer evening. He keeps walking until he’s able to shake off the trappings of The Master and assume the trappings of a husband and father and friend. Every Sunday it seems to get more difficult, but he knows he has no choice. He turns and glances up at the dark window of their flat and smiles. He’s sated and pleasantly tired and already planning next week’s games.

_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to email me at frayach@yahoo.com is you're curious to find out who is who.


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